We Are Okay

Nina LaCour ist in der Nähe von San Francisco aufgewachsen. Sie arbeitet als Lehrerin für Literatur und lebt und schreibt in Oakland, Kalifornien.

Praise for We Are Okay

"A meditation on surviving grief, We Are Okay is short, poetic and gorgeously written.... The power in this little book is in seeing Marin come out on the other side of loss, able to appreciate a beautiful yellow-glazed pottery bowl and other people's kindnesses, and to understand that she might one day have a girlfriend and a future. The world LaCour creates is fragile but profoundly humane." -The New York Times Book Review

"A beautiful, devastating piece of art. . . .The title hints at a happy ending, but the journey toward it passes through some of the darkest corners of the heart. Be prepared to be gutted-and grateful. We Are Okay is an extraordinary work by an author who keeps redefining and elevating her genre." -Bookpage

"Nina LaCour treats her emotions so beautifully and with such empathy. Of course, we'd expect nothing less from the stunning LaCour." -Bustle

★ "Exquisite." -Kirkus, starred review

★ "LaCour paints a captivating depiction of loss, bewilderment, and emotional paralysis . . . raw and beautiful." -Booklist, starred review

★ "Beautifully crafted . . . . A quietly moving, potent novel." -School Library Journal, starred review

★ "A moving portrait of a girl struggling to rebound after everything she's known has been thrown into disarray." -Publishers Weekly, starred review

★"Bittersweet and hopeful . . . poetic and skillfully crafted." -Shelf Awareness, starred review

"So lonely and beautiful that I could hardly breathe. This is a perfect book." -Stephanie Perkins, bestselling author of Anna and the French Kiss

"As beautiful as the best memories, as sad as the best songs, as hopeful as your best dreams."
-Siobhan Vivian, bestselling author of The Last Boy and Girl in the World

"You can feel every peak and valley of Marin's emotional journey on your skin, in your gut. Beautifully written, heartfelt, and deeply real." -Adi Alsaid, author of Never Always Sometimes and Let's Get Lost

MORE PRAISE FOR NINA LACOUR

Hold Still:
YALSA Best Books for Young Adults (2010); 2010 William C. Morris Honor Book

★ "LaCour makes an impressive debut with an emotionally charged young adult novel about friendship and loss." - Publishers Weekly

"LaCour strikes a new path through a familiar story, leading readers with her confident writing and savvy sense of prose." - Kirkus

"The book is written with honesty, revealing one's pain after the loss of a loved one." - SLJ

The Disenchantments:
YALSA Best Books for Young Adults (2013); Kirkus Best Teen Book of 2012; A Publishers Weekly Best Summer Book

★ "This is about the inside and outside of characters, the past and future of their lives--and it is astonishing." -Booklist

"Quietly compelling . . . well rendered, bittersweet and hopeful." -Los Angeles Times

★ "A rich tapestry that will make readers confident that they are in the hands of a master storyteller. . . . . Hauntingly beautiful." -Kirkus

★ "LaCour skillfully draws connections between art and life as she delves into the heart of her characters." -Publishers Weekly

★"Bittersweet and hopeful . . . poetic and skillfully crafted." -Shelf Awareness

★ "LaCour's writing style is laid-back, low key, and totally on point." -VOYA

Everything Leads to You:
★ "Underneath the privilege surges real pain, longing, and feeling in a way that makes it easy to imagine this novel as a film." - Publishers Weekly

CHAPTER ONE

Before Hannah left, she asked if I was sure I'd be okay. She had already waited an hour past when the doors were closed for winter break, until everyone but the custodians were gone. She had folded a load of laundry, written an email, searched her massive psychology textbook for answers to the final exam questions to see if she had gotten them right. She had run out of ways to fill time, so when I said, "Yes, I'll be fine," she had nothing left to do except try to believe me.

I helped her carry a bag downstairs. She gave me a hug, tight and official, and said, "We'll be back from my aunt's on the twenty-eighth. Take the train down and we'll go to shows."

I said yes, not knowing if I meant it. When I returned to our room, I found she'd snuck a sealed envelope onto my pillow.

And now I'm alone in the building, staring at my name written in Hannah's pretty cursive, trying to not let this tiny object undo me.

I have a thing about envelopes, I guess. I don't want to open it. I don't really even want to touch it, but I keep telling myself that it will only be something nice. A Christmas card. Maybe with a special message inside, maybe with nothing but a signature. Whatever it is, it will be harmless.

The dorms are closed for the monthlong semester break, but my adviser helped me arrange to stay here. The administration wasn't happy about it. Don't you have any family? they kept asking. What about friends you can stay with? This is where I live now, I told them. Where I will live until I graduate. Eventually, they surrendered. A note from the Residential Services Manager appeared under my door a couple days ago, saying the groundskeeper would be here throughout the holiday, giving me his contact information. Anything at all, she wrote. Contact him if you need anything at all.

Things I need: The California sunshine. A more convincing smile.

Without everyone's voices, the TVs in their rooms, the faucets running and toilets flushing, the hums and dings of the microwaves, the footsteps and the doors slamming-without all of the sounds of living-this building is a new and strange place. I've been here for three months, but I hadn't noticed the sound of the heater until now.

It clicks on: a gust of warmth.

I'm alone tonight. Tomorrow, Mabel will arrive and stay for three days, and then I'll be alone again until the middle of January. "If I were spending a month alone," Hannah said yesterday, "I would start a meditation practice. It's clinically proven to lower blood pressure and boost brain activity. It even helps your immune system." A few minutes later she pulled a book out of her backpack. "I saw this in the bookstore the other day. You can read it first if you want."

She tossed it on my bed. An essay collection on solitude.

I know why she's afraid for me. I first appeared in this doorway two weeks after Gramps died. I stepped in-a stunned and feral stranger-and now I'm someone she knows, and I need to stay that way. For her and for me.
Only an hour in, and already the first temptation: the warmth of my blankets and bed, my pillows and the fake-fur throw Hannah's mom left here after a weekend visit. They're all saying, Climb in. No one will know if you stay in bed all day. No one will know if you wear the same sweatpants for the entire month, if you eat every meal in front of television shows and use T-shirts as napkins. Go ahead and listen to that same song on repeat until its sound turns to nothing and you sleep the winter away.

I only have Mabel's visit to get through, and then all this could be mine. I could scroll through Twitter until my vision blurs and then collapse on my bed like an Oscar Wilde character. I could score myself a bottle of whiskey (though I promised Gramps I wouldn't) and let it make me glow, let all the room's edges go soft, let the memories out of their cages.

Maybe I would hear him sing again, if all else went quiet.

But this is what Hannah's trying to s